


Even if I'm falling apart, I won't let it show

by ibtp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (very little), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Moving On, Mutual Pining, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-01-30 23:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibtp/pseuds/ibtp
Summary: Three things Percy knows, four things people say about him, and what naturally occurs as a result.
Relationships: Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood
Comments: 15
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter 1

It has been two years since the War has ended. Rebuilding efforts are still underway, and the Wizarding World has been going through a major infrastructure change. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and all the Weasleys have become widely known as heroes, saviors, defenders of the light and enemies to the dark. 

They are war heroes, but they are also grieving, mourning, and moving on. 

All of them, except for Percy Weasley. 

But before continuing on, you (the reader) needs to know two things. 

First, Percy Weasley knows three things. 

One, he's a mess. An absolute, completely unfixable fucking mess. He should be able to move on, fix his life and self, but some days it's too hard to even wake up. Even thinking of trying to do anything is too completely daunting.

He _should_ be able to pull himself together. He _should_ be able to stop being such a fucking mess. But he can't. 

Two, he'll never be good enough. Oh, he tries of course. He tries and he tries and he tries, but he always manages to veer off even the straightest paths and fuck everything up. No matter what, he'll never be good enough, and it's time he accepted that he'll never be like Bill, all rugged charm and charisma, or Charlie, reckless and unafraid of danger, or F- George, popular and funny, or Ron, loyal and always ready to do what's right, or Ginny, strong and fiercely protective of those she loves. 

He'll never be good enough, and it's time he accepted that. 

Three, he's not worth loving. Maybe, just maybe, he'd been worthy of love once, a long long time ago, before he went and fucked everything up. 

All he knows is that he's isn't worthy of anything, not _now_. Not anymore. 

Maybe he never was. 

The second thing is this. 

If you'd asked a random wizard or witch you'd found on the street about Percy Weasley, they'd furrow their brow and squint their eyes, before finally replying, "A Weasley? Never heard of him. Must not be a _Weasley-Weasley_, if you catch my drift." 

If you'd asked someone working under Percy, or anyone in the Ministry really, they'd say, "Well, he's hardworking and all, but a bit _boring_ really. Wasn't he involved in that scandal a few years back before the War? And you know, I heard that" and so on, because Ministry workers love a good gossip (a student had once postulated that if Ministry workers cut back their gossip time, and were not given any breaks ever, they'd get so much done that there would be no real use for the Ministry. The Department of Communication gave him a slap on the back and an award, but only because the head of the department was having a bit of beef with the head of the Department of Internal Affairs, who was ashamed to be the father of the aforementioned student who'd written it as a joke. Percy had read that in third year, in a book titled _0101 less useful facts_.) 

If you'd asked his family, who knew him marginally better than his employees but made more efforts, they'd reply vaguely, "He's a bit of a prat, but he's family. Even if he left us, and he didn't show up for Bill's wedding. Wait, why am I telling you all of this? How did you even get here? This is private property!" 

Finally, if you'd asked one Oliver Wood, Keeper for Puddlemere United, all-around good guy, Quidditch fan(atic), and unquestionably the person who knew Percy best, he'd reply with a shrug, "He's Percy." If you were to push him even further, say, ask him if he thought Percy was perfect, he'd stare at you in the eye as if you were crazy and say, simply, "Of course he's perfect. He's Percy." (This did, in fact, happen. It was at a gathering between friends, someone spiked the firewhiskey to the degree that you could spike _firewhiskey_, Oliver was drunk, they were playing Truth or Dare, and Angelina was sober). 

Now that you (the reader) know this, the following events that are merely following the natural order of Things will make (more) sense. 

At 6 o'clock on a Friday afternoon, exactly two years and two months after the War, Percy Weasley walks briskly out of his office into a mostly empty Ministry (mostly empty, because the Ministry is never _truly_ empty; that would defeat the whole point of the Ministry). Under his arm, he's holding a binder filled with paperwork, and in his other hand, he's holding a briefcase overflowing with papers, all of them urgent. 

Percy is the head of the Department of Transportation and Communication, a job that he has earned only because he was the single most competent person left from the previous administration. The Death Eaters had not been too great at running a government, and they'd relied on people like Percy to ensure that it didn't totally collapse, giving him more responsibility and work than they should have. As a result, he'd emerged from the War as one of the few people who knew what was going on government-wise, and had been promoted (or demoted?) to head of the Department of Transportation and Communication. It meant longer hours and more work, but Percy had always been good at that sort of thing, so he doesn't mind. 

And really, he can't even complain about the time he gets off work, because it's the same time Oliver gets off his, so he always comes to pick him up.

Percy is standing in front of the fountain, the new one that depicts Harry with jets of red shooting out of his wand (always delights the kids) and a plaque that asks witches and wizards to "Please donate generously, as all funds go to efforts to rebuild the magical community after the War." 

10 minutes have passed since 6 o'clock, and Oliver is late. Percy checks his watch again, almost anxiously, and wonders if Oliver is not coming after all. 

He comes everyday, invariably and unerringly, and is never, ever late, so much so that people have begun to speculate that the uptight Percy Weasley is Oliver Wood's secret sweetheart (not his words). But maybe Oliver has grown tired of Percy. Maybe he's seen who Percy truly is, how flawed and terribly fucked up he's always been, and has decided that he doesn't want to have anything to do with Percy, which would be very bad not only because Oliver is probably his only friend but also because he's the only person Percy can stand living with, and is currently his roommate. 

It's kind of ironic, really, a cruel twist of fate that he's back to rooming with Oliver again. Some things just don't change, he supposes.

Wait, he tells himself. Calm down. Don't overthink this. He's probably just late or something. He checks his watch again. 15 minutes late. His stomach sinks. 

Just wait. Don't overthink this. Just wait.

So he waits, seconds flying by like smoke, and he feels grey and cloudy and dizzy. A bad metaphor, he knows, but he read it in a book once and he's been partial to it ever since. 

Wait. Don't overthink this, he tells himself again. He thinks he might be able to calm down, if only he repeats the phrases enough times. 

Wait. Don't overthink this. Calm down. 

Wait. Don't overthink this. Calm down. 

Wait. Don-

"Percy? Is that you? Hey, Percy!" 

He turns to the sound of the voice, finding, unexpectedly, Ginny and Harry. They both look flushed, probably from running-though Merlin knows why they were running, of all things-and he is struck by how young they are, eyes bright, mouth grinning so widely he wonders if it's normal, cheeks flushed with exertion and happiness. 

They are so young. The Wizarding World forgets that their Savior is only a boy of 20, that he was robbed of the chance of a normal school experience because of his lightning-bolt scar, that he did not finish his seventh year because the Ministry had too important a job as the head of a special Auror deployment for him to refuse. 

They forget that Ginny, forever immortalized as a key rebel player and leader of the DA, has only just finished school, and is already being deployed in some of the most dangerous fields there is, fighting fiercely and unrelentingly to chase down Death Eaters and have them convicted, pursuing criminals that wouldn't hesitate to kill her or those she loves. 

They forget that they were only children forced to grow too quickly, and Percy finds himself falling down the familiar spiral of guilt and what-ifs and if-onlys and shame. 

Guilt is a selfish emotion, he thinks. You make things about yourself when really, _they_ are suffering, not you. Selfish, he thinks. He's selfish. 

"Hi, Ginny, Harry," he gives them a faint, awkward smile. They give each other fond glances in between alternating smiling at him. 

"How are you, Perce? I haven't seen you since, well..." she trails off, giving him a look, and he feels the tips of his ears flush red with shame. Ginny has always been his favorite sibling, and the only one of them who could make him feel so guilty for not seeing her often, and the only one who ever asked him how he felt and meant it.

"Er, been busy and all, but not that bad. You?" 

She beams at Harry but her smile is directed at him. "Okay, I guess. I mean, as good as it can be. We're just back from a, er, work trip. You know what I mean, right?" 

"Yeah. I mean, who do you think arranged your trip? Found you a place to stay? Not the Auror Department, that's for sure." 

Harry chuckles a little, and admits sheepishly, "We are pretty bad at all of this paperwork and governmental stuff." 

Percy rolls his eyes, but it's less in annoyance and more out of habit. 

"So Perce, what are you doing here?"

"Umm..." he trails off nervously. This is not a topic he wants to talk about, but Ginny is staring at him eyebrow raised. She knows, he thinks suddenly, but how could she? She doesn't _know. _Even if she does, she doesn't know about _that_, because he made sure that no one would ever know. But she still looks at him curiously, knowingly, and he feels nervous and faint and dizzier than he did at the possibility of Oliver knowing how fucked up he is, because if Ginny knows, then maybe Oliver does too, and maybe that's why he's not here today. 

She can't know. 

"I'm waiting for someone, actually," he says as loftily as he can, but she doesn't bite like his brothers would, and she only looks at him, waiting silently. Beside her, Harry is oblivious, though he is frowning at his watch. 

"Who?" 

"Ah, well," his ears must be so red, they could light up a fucking Christmas tree, "if you must know..." 

"I must," she replies coolly and firmly. 

"Er, well. It's, er. It's Oliver. You know, Oliver Wood. He's my roommate." 

The name catches Harry's interest, and Ginny stops talking to Percy in favor of contemplating what exactly he meant by that statement. Percy can tell; you don't live with someone for 19 years without learning a few things about them. 

"Oliver? Oh, how's he doing? Haven't seen him since... Oh well actually, he was there at Sunday Dinner two weeks ago, wasn't he Gin?" 

He turns to Ginny, who nods slightly. She swivels on Percy and asks, "He was. How come you didn't go? You haven't been coming to Sunday Dinners for a long time, Perce." 

He stutters through his words and fumbles with his excuses, but before his traitorous mouth can make a bigger fool of himself, he hears a crashing noise and Oliver, slightly banged up, puts an arm on Percy's shoulder. 

His heart stops, for a beat. 

"H-hey, Perce, 'm so sorry 'm late but there wa' this huge problem with Pepper and ya know." He pants through an explanation, and Percy's heart beats too loudly in his chest. 

Ginny gives them a look, as does Harry, though they convey two extremely different things. 

Ginny's look is along the lines of "Hmmm..." while Harry's is more like a "What the bloody hell is he talking about?" 

Understandable. Percy wouldn't understand Oliver either, if they hadn't lived together for so long. 

"Oh, hey, Harry, Ginny! Haven't seen ya guys since, what, two weeks ago?" 

Harry goes to say something, but Ginny grabs on to his arm firmly, and smiles widely. 

"Yeah, sorry we can't stay to catch up. We have to be somewhere, but see you on Sunday, yeah? And for the record, don't say that you couldn't possibly intrude, because you have a standing invitation. And bring Perce with you, that's the only way he'll come. Bye Perce! It was nice talking to you," she shouts everything so quickly he has to wait a few seconds for all of her words to catch up in his head, and by that time, they're gone, leaving Oliver and him alone. 

"Well," Oliver blinks slowly, "that was fast. D'you reckon they were actually busy, or she just hates us?"

"She loves you," Percy replies, rolling his eyes, "because you're the only person who can talk Quidditch as much as she does. No one else can keep up, not even Harry, and we all know how obsessed he is."

"Ha! I don't know how she stays so updated, considering she doesn't even work in the field. Anyways, you know how I was late? Pepper was actually trying to convince me to go with the team to some bar," he makes a face of distaste, "but I told her I couldn't because I was meeting you."

"Oh," Percy says, "you don't have to, you know, er, not go because of me. I know it's a bit of a routine, but, er, you really don't have to, you know, miss out on a good time because of, well. Me." 

He's still reeling from the surprise of it a bit, enough to prevent him from forming coherent sentences. He's known Oliver for so long, true, but he's still shocked that Oliver would pass up all of that in favor of, well, _him_.

"I want to," Oliver says firmly, "I'd rather spend time with you at home than without you at some bar. Even if all of my teammates are there and having a good time."

Ah, there's the guilt again. He shouldn't be preventing Oliver from spending time with his well-beloved teammates, or isolating him so purposefully and ridding him of the chance of having fun. 

"What if," he hesitates, "if I came with you? To the bar, I mean. Like, you know. I've never met your teammates before, might be the chance?"

Oliver looks at him for a few seconds, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, before admitting, "I-Well, I didn't-I just, er. Well, okay."

"Wait. What's wrong?"

"Er, well, actually, I didn't want you to meet them." Oliver admits it all sheepishly, looking thoroughly sorry to have brought himself in such an awkward position. 

"Oh."

Something in him sinks deep to the pit of his gut, and his heart feels like it's been squeezed tight.

"Ah, um, okay. Y-you know you can go. You don't have to I'm perfectly fine on my own and-"

"No, no, Perce, I didn't mean it like that! I'm not ashamed of you! I could _never_ be ashamed of you, Perce."

He says it so fiercely Percy can't help but believe him, and something wound so tight in his chest relaxes, just a little. 

"Actually, it was kind of the opposite," Oliver admits, sheepishly, "not that I'm ashamed of them, or anything. It's just-well. They're, you know, a little brutish, sometimes. I didn't want to, you know. Scare you away, I guess."

"Scare me? You couldn't possibly," Percy replies, a teasing smile on his face. Oliver shakes his head, and grins, offering his arm. 

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he says, before the world whirls around him and fades into darkness. 

The world reappears a few seconds later, in the form of a crowded bar with neon-ish lights that can be seen from the dark alley they appeared in. 

The inside of the bar is even more crowded than Percy expected. It's a muggle bar, so the other Quidditch players are easy to spot though they are dressed in muggle clothing-or at least, what he thinks is supposed to be muggle clothing. 

"You didn't tell me this was a muggle bar," he hisses in Oliver's ear. Oliver only gives a sheepish grin. He's already dressed in muggle clothing, though Oliver always wears muggle clothing as casual clothes. He always looks amazing, but sometimes it's positively _sinful_-

No. Percy is _not_ going down that train of thought. He tears his mind away and murmurs a discreet charm that immediately transfigures his wizard clothing to muggle clothing. It's technically a breach of the law, but no one's paying attention to him and if anyone noticed, which he highly doubts, it can be chalked up to either alcohol or drugs anyways. 

All the other Quidditch players are dressed up in jerseys for some muggle football team or another (he doesn't really pay attention; it's already exhausting enough having to keep track of Quidditch, much less one of at least dozens of muggle sports that exist), drinks in hand as they either mingle, drink, or go out to the dance floor, either among themselves or with muggles. They all wave enthusiastically at Oliver when they see him, shooting questioning at Percy with raised eyebrows. 

"Oliver!" A dark-skinned girl with curly hair shouts loudly, waving them over. She has a bright pink drink in one hand and a blood red drink in the other, both adorned with blue umbrellas and a pink straw. She hands one to Oliver the moment he reaches the table, smiling widely and claps him on the back. 

"Olive! I knew you would come! And you brought someone! Someone can actually stand your Quidditch talk outside of us?"

"Oh, shut up Pepper," he ribs her affectionately, before putting a too warm hand on Percy's shoulder, "this is Percy, by the way. Percy, Pepper." 

"Oh my God, the infamous Percy Weasley! Wow, can't believe I'm meeting you in person! Oliver talks about you, like, all the time. Like, seriously, all. The. Time."

He laughs, sounding awkward, and hopes that they can't see the flush making its way up his neck. Thankfully, before he has to respond, a pretty woman in a slim purple dress and a burly man in a red and white jersey make their way to them. The girl wraps her arm around Pepper's waist, taking a sip from Pepper's bright pink drink. 

"Hey," she smiles, voice friendly, "I'm Pepper's girlfriend, Marla. Nice to meet you. This is Lanslow. He's a beater. Percy, right?" 

"Yeah," he smiles awkwardly again, "that's me. Nice to meet you." 

Oliver gives his shoulder a squeeze in reassurance. 

"Hey, you don't have a drink right? The bar's right there. Come on, I'll get you a drink." The man-Lanslow-offers, grinning a full smile, teeth and all. 

"Really it's fine-" 

"No, seriously, come on," he leans in a little to whisper, "you don't want to stay for this. Pepper spent forever trying to convince Oliver to come and he still said no. Now he's here, but she's super pissed at him. Might as well go and get a drink, right hot stuff?"

He winks, and Percy blushes dark red. Oliver's hand has slipped off his shoulder, and he regrets the warmth of it just a little bit. 

Before they go, Oliver grabs Lanslow's shirt and whispers something in his ear. The other boy nods, looking mockingly solemn, even giving Oliver a mock salute to which he only rolls his eyes. 

Lanslow grabs Percy's hand and steers him away from the trio. The music is loud, deafening and bouncing off the walls, but Percy thinks he hears Marla say, "Bringing him Oliver? Are you crazy? He's going to get devoured, poor thing." 

He must have heard wrong. 

Lanslow steers him to the bar, and orders two drinks that Percy doesn't know, which arrive promptly after two short minutes. They're both yellow and have a sugary red cherry on top. 

"Pina Colada," the other man says before Percy has time to open his mouth, "try it, it's good. It's a muggle drink." 

He gives it a skeptical look before taking a sip. It's... actually, it's not entirely horrible, which is good, he guesses. It tastes sweet and fruity and not really like wine or firewhiskey, which really isn't a bad thing considering he's never been that fond of either. Really, it just tastes like a smoothie, but with a bitter aftertaste. 

"How is it?" Lanslow asks, smile still on his face. He has one of those faces. The ones that always smile. Not a bad thing either. 

"It's okay." 

Before either of them have the chance to say anything, the bartender comes up again, handing Percy another drink, this one a cold blue. 

"For you," he says before pointing to two girls sitting next to them, "from the girls over there." 

They both look at the girls, who, sensing their gazes, wave and come over. Percy is more than a little confused, but Lanslow seems to know what's happening, so he supposes it must be fine. 

Hopefully. He's not 100% sure he can trust his judgement. 

"Hey," says one of them, short blond hair framing piercing dark eyes, wearing sparkly golden hoops as earrings and a turquoise dress of lace that opens up at the bottom but hangs just slightly too tightly on top, "do you want, to, er, maybe dance?" 

She looks just as awkward as he feels despite the fact that she's, objectively speaking, stunning. Her friend, a shoulder-length brunette with blue eyes who looks much more at ease, nudges her shoulder in an encouraging matter. 

_Wait a second-_

"Sorry, ladies, he's off limits," Lanslow rebukes them gently, a charming grin on his face, "but may I interest you to dance with one handsome gentleman?"

He points to himself, and they both laugh. The blonde looks relieved (is that a good or bad?) and shakes her head gently, "No thanks. I think we'll go get another drink." 

They leave promptly. Their interaction was short and almost nonexistent, but Percy is still reeling from the implications. Was she trying to hit on him? Why would she try to hit on him anyway? 

What the fuck just happened?

And what did Lanslow mean, that he was off-limits?

He makes to ask, but the other man has already opened his mouth. 

"Are you dating Wood?" 

"W-Wha-I don't-I'm sorry?" 

Calm down Percy, he tells himself. Just breathe. Don't get a heart attack here, it would be a really shitty place to die. Plus, it would just ruin the entire evening for everyone. 

"Well, I didn't know Wood's roommate was going to be so hot. I thought you were just going to be, dunno, some stick or something-that's how Wood always describes you by the way-but anyway, I was going to hit on you, but Wood says you were off-limits. So, are you guys dating?"

He explains all of this with a casual yet curious expression. 

_Off limits?_ Don't get a heart attack, he reminds himself. _But really, off-limits? What-_

"Um, er, no, we're not, er, dating. He was just, er, probably, you know, worried about me being too, er, delicate for this sort of thing or something. Probably just looking out for me, or something."

He adds a light chuckle that couldn't sound more forced, and Lanslow seems less than impressed. 

"Sorry," he says, getting up from his seat, "I have to go to the bathroom."

He navigates through the crowded room, occasionally stumbling into someone though nobody seems to mind. People disappear and reappear in a haze of smoke and lights, and nothing seems quite real, his head light and slightly dizzy. 

It wasn't as if he was actually going to use the bathroom, but, well, he isn't a liar, totally. Simpy, he would maybe take long enough that by the time he reemerges, Lanslow will be gone, and he can sit and prevent the headache he feels coming on in peace. 

Alone. 

Like he's meant to be. 

Of course, things can never be that simple. He's just stepped foot into the bathroom (which isn't in too bad a condition) when he hears moans and groans coming from on of the stalls. 

_Nope._ Yeah, no, this was not what he signed up for. Merlin, how did he even _get_ into this situation? 

Please just kill him now. 

He runs out of the bathroom as quickly as he can, but lingers in a corner somewhere for a few more minutes before going back to the bar. As expected, the Quidditch player is already gone, probably off dancing somewhere, and he prepares himself for a night of drinking, alone. 

"I wouldn't drink that if I were you," the bartender interrupts before he has the chance to take a sip, "I don't think anyone's touched it, but I still wouldn't drink it if I were you. Here." 

He slides another Pine Colada in front of Percy, eyes sympathetic, "Someone bought you a drink."

"Thank you," he accepts, taking a sip. The bartender leaves to tend to someone else, and Percy sits there, sipping his drink and trying not to let it get to his head. 

Oliver is dancing with someone, stranger or teammate Percy doesn't know, but it sparks a vengeful feeling inside of him so he drinks harder and let the world swim in front of his eyes. 

He knows a lot of people that started drinking after the War because they needed something to help them cope. Percy was not one of those people for two reasons. 

One, he hardly deserves to feel numb when it is all so much his fault. Two, he is not a lightweight. Quite the opposite in fact; he can drink more than mostly everyone he knows, perhaps except for Ron, though Ron drinks even less than he does.

The greatest concession he has ever been willing to make to alcohol is a release of the tight grip he has on his thoughts, letting them run free and wild in whatever direction they so choose. Of course, even this happened rarely, but the drinks kept coming and most of them are hard on the alcohol. 

His attention snags on a pile of green paper on the table. Muggle money. That's the good thing about muggles; they all know math and finance and all of that stuff. Hogwarts didn't even have math class! They really should implement something like that, he thinks to himself, and wonders if McGonagall would agree. She'd liked Oliver a lot, if he remembers correctly. She'd brought him his seeker and had given Harry a lifelong passion in the process. Smart woman, Professor McGonagall. 

She would have made a good Ministry worker, never willing to let go of an inch or compromise on anything. 

_Of course,_ he thinks blearily, _I'm thinking of it again._

His thoughts always, inevitably, drift back to the Ministry. The Ministry is where he made all of his mistakes, where he fucked everything up for a little bit of power. 

What can he say? 

He'd believed Fudge against his own family, and look where that got him. 

Still, Fudge was better than the Death Eaters, and much more competent (he'd kept the government running for years, which is more than Death Eaters can say).

They'd been great at taking over governments, but definitely did not excel in the running a country part. The Ministry had been a mess during that time (not that it was not a mess usually, but more so then), Death Eaters running willy-nilly, hooked on power and relishing watching other suffer. It was horrible, yes, but it was also terribly inefficient. 

Again, guilt, that horribly selfish emotion. He is guilty. Was guilty. He should have tried more, done more.

But should-haves never change anything. 

Still, they'd given him a position of power, more or less. He was the only remaining aide from the Fudge/Scrimgeour administrations that hadn't either died or ran away the moment trouble could be detected, and was competent enough. They thought him loyal, or at the very least, too scared to do anything, too selfish to rebel. 

He was selfish. Is selfish. 

But they'd thought that he didn't have the guts to try anything, which was partly true. People thought rebellion was loud, open and defiant, laying waste to building in puffs of smoke and ash, watching the world burn. But quiet rebellion, sneaky and unnoticeable, is much easier. 

It was terribly easy to write laws that were incomprehensible and could never be put into action, find ways to cut funding, delay things by having them go through endless departments of bureaucracy. It had all been so terribly easy, and quiet, and unnoticed. 

But in the end, he couldn't have said that he'd helped anyone. So many people had still suffered, hadn't they? 

What had he done, really? 

Nothing. 

Sure, it was easy to delay things, but they still happened. Even the Death Eaters had known that in the long run, you needed bureaucracy and a government, though none of them knew how exactly to use it to accomplish their goals, so they'd piled on a lot of work for him. He tried to find ways to make it so that laws that were passed made them have to go through about a dozen different checkpoints, but in the end, no matter how much delay, people had still been harmed. 

So what _had_ he done? 

Nothing. 

_Oh, great,_ he thinks to himself, _my thoughts are going in circles again._

He makes a purposeful move to steer his mind clear from memories from the War, but any other topics are just as unappealing. 

At night, when he doesn't have the energy to actively control himself, his mind always drifts to three things. The War, Oliver, and his Family (Fred). None of them are pleasant topics (the War tastes like acrid smoke and ash that makes his throat dry, Oliver is too bittersweet, and his Family is sour guilt and acidic regret), but they're stuck in his mind, revolving continuously in a whirl of endless torment. 

It's, apparently, bad for his health. _The Quibbler_ ran an entire issue on healthy coping mechanism and moving on a little after the War. It took advice from professional muggle therapists (which were sorely lacking in the Wizarding World), and it was proposed by Luna (hardly a surprise there; Luna is too nice for her own good, and Percy has always liked her, after being introduced by Penny). It had a whole page on self-esteem, and how self-hate wasn't conducive to anything, which Percy highly approved of but couldn't take the advice of himself. 

Self-love is for other people, not for him. 

A shock of red hair flashes across his vision, and his heart jumps wildly. 

Not fear. The term is anxiety, he's been told, but it's pretty damn close to fear. 

Not anyone in his Family, he notes with wild relief. 

His relationship with his family has always been... complicated, to say the least. It still is complicated. They try, and he tries, but sometimes trying isn't enough, and most of the time, he wonders if this is one of those cases or if there's still hope there for them. 

His relationship with his siblings are mostly okay. He's never been too close with Bill, who was always too old and too cool to hang around Percy, though he was rather sorry that he had missed his wedding with Fleur. Charlie is undeniably the closest with Bill, and their tight bond had left little room for Percy, their overly-serious and no-fun little brother, who had grown from boring to bad to worse. 

With Ron, Percy was always so sickeningly worried. Even before Hogwarts and everything with Harry, Ron always got in trouble for all the wrong reasons (as if there were any right reasons to get in trouble); Percy could understand people who got into trouble for whatever personal reason, who understood that if they were caught, there would be consequences and that they would be able to withstand those consequences. But Ron only ever got in trouble for someone else, simply because he would never have done it for himself. Maybe Percy is wrong, but he had always been so worried that someday, Ron would find someone that wouldn't hesitate to use him for their own purposes (he'd always been so, so worried for Ron). 

Ginny was and still is his favorite sibling. She always was fierce and straightforward, unafraid of herself, much less anyone else. But she'd wanted approval (not as much as him. Oh, how fiercely he'd wanted it, and how dejected he'd been when he hadn't gotten it), and their paths had inevitably diverged. She had her own world, now, one that didn't require him. 

And finally, Fred and George. The Twins. Out all of his siblings, he had the most complicated relationship with the twins. Even before Fred's death (fuck, don't think about it, fuck, fuck, fuck), theirs was a complicated one. He is almost sure they must have loved him at some point, somewhere in between Charlie and Bill leaving for Hogwarts, and Ron and Ginny being born, but he is sure they had also almost always hated him.

Now... now he doesn't George had it in him to hate anyone anymore. 

He should stop thinking about it.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop. 

Maybe if he repeats it long enough, it actually will stop. Or maybe, he'll lose his mind. 

That's fine. He's already lost most of his mind anyway. There's nothing worth salvaging in there.

Stop. 

Stop.

Stop. 

Merlin, why can't everything just stop? 

The lights are too bright, the noises are too loud, the entire fucking bar is just too crowded. Why did he come here? He never should have come. 

Why can't everything just _stop_?

Stop. 

Stop. 

Deep breaths, one, two, three. 

Deep breaths. 

One.

Two.

Three.

Stop. 

He opens his eyes, takes another deep breath, composes himself. He's fine, everything is fine. It must have just been something. Over-stimulation, maybe. He's not sure, but he's fine.

It's all fine. 

He can just go back home, to Oliver's flat, but he needs to go tell Oliver first. The prospect of wading through the ever-thickening crowd makes him slightly queasy, but what other choice does he have? 

He stands up and prepares to leave, but Oliver pops out of nowhere and slings an arm around Percy, looking too drunk and yet, still concerned. 

"Peerce 'm soooo dizzy. Ha, the room's spinning. You' face' spinning. But's pretty. Ha' I told you? Your face's pretty. You're pretty." 

He babbles a little more nonsense, drunk words slurring and his drink, which is still in his hand, sloshing around. 

Percy sighs, quietly relieved.

"Come on," he grabs Oliver's arm. It won't take too long to get to the alley, and they can apparate from there. 

"Wait. You okay? You look bad," Oliver suddenly says, looking more focused and sober than he has for their entire interaction. 

"I'm fine. I just need some rest. Now come one, you big lug, let's go home." 

If he were sober, Oliver would harp more on this. But as he is, drunk out of his mind, he lets the topic go, muttering a quiet "Okay" that Percy almost doesn't hear over the din of the bar. 

Later, when Oliver's put to bed, and Percy's lying on his own, he thinks back to that question. Is he okay? 

No, he supposes, he's not.

He's broken and tired and out of his mind and so horribly fucked up and completely insane, and he just wishes everything could stop. 

But that's fine. 

It's more than he deserves, anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Next part is Oliver's POV.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ibtp). Feel free to talk to me! I really want to vent to someone about how cute Perciver is


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oliver's POV!
> 
> I don't think this one is necessarily darker than the last chapter, but there are some mentions of violence as well as mild flashbacks of the War and mentions of death. It's nothing too graphic, but please be advised, especially if you are sensitive to these kind of topics.
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!

He wakes with a pounding headache, feeling as if bludgers are being hit against his head at every turn. 

When he stands, it's dizzily, and he goes through his morning routine with a bit of difficulty he hasn't anticipated. 

Shit, had he really drunk that much last night?

Judging by the splitting headache he has and the ringing in his ears, he must have. He thinks back to last night, to what he did, and _oh yeah, he had drunk a lot_. He's regretting it now, but in his defense, it seemed like a good idea at the time. 

When he's done, he stumbles to past the living room into the "dining room." With quotation marks of course, because it can hardly be qualified as a room of itself. It's basically only a space that the living room opens on, but Oliver doesn't mind and his roommate doesn't either. Or at least, Oliver doesn't think he minds. 

They could afford a bigger place if they wanted. Oliver's job pays well enough that he could probably afford a small mansion (or maybe not, depending on the location). Puddlemere United has grown increasingly popular over the years, both thanks to Harry mentioning that it's one of his favorite teams, and because they've been doing well in the leagues, and Oliver, rumored to be slated for captain, has been doing extremely well economically. Still, he doesn't see any point in getting a larger living space (unless Percy minds, of course) and prefers to save money for any eventuality or, more likely, for a family (if he ever starts one, of course). 

He quite likes their living arrangements as they are.

Percy's already sitting there, drinking tea and reading _The Quibbler_, looking composed and entirely unruffled. He's already made breakfast, Oliver notes happily as he takes his seat, though it's rather unconventional. He doesn't recall Percy ever eating sandwiches for breakfast (and he would know if he did), but well, there's a first time for everything.

"Morning," he mumbles as he grabs a sandwich. Percy raises an eyebrow, looking singularly unimpressed but says nothing and hands him a cup of black coffee, with a pinch of sugar, just the way Oliver likes it. 

"Oliver, it's well past noon," Percy replies disinterestedly and returns to his newspaper. 

"Oh." Oliver checks the clock in the living room, and immediately protests, "It's only one thirty!"

"Like I said," Percy replied, eyes still on the newspaper, "well past noon. You're lucky neither of us have anything to do today, or you would be fucked."

Oliver startles slightly but says nothing, instead taking a bite of food. His heart jumped slightly at the casual, offhanded way Percy said "us." He could have left Oliver to his own devices, after all, or simply left some coffee or water on the counter if he had somewhere to go. But he's now given clear indication that he would have stayed with Oliver, even if he had somewhere to go. 

He can't quite contain the slight smile that unfurls on his face, not that he really needs to anyway. Oliver is fairly certain that his feelings are shared, but Percy can be so dense about these sort of things. 

That's all right, though. Oliver's willing to wait as long as it takes. Percy deserves that much, at least. 

"Thanks Perce," he says when he's done eating. Percy looks away from the newspaper, looking startled.

"For what?"

"You brought me home last night, right? I was pretty sloshed, so there's no way I brought myself back. Probably would have splinched myself too, if I tried to apparate-" 

Percy looks almost sheepish and interrupts with, "Oh, that. No problem." 

"-and for always being there for me. I love you, Perce, I really do. I don't tell you that enough." He finishes everything with a wide grin, the one that _Witch Weekly_ voted as "Most Charming Smile of the Year" or something. 

"O-Oh. Well, that's er, very. Well. Very, er nice of you. Though you really don't have to- I love you too, I suppose." 

Percy's blushing and fumbling awkwardly, and Oliver stifles a grin. The thing is, everything he's said is completely true. 

He's always known that, given the chance, he could fall in love with Percy Weasley. Even in Hogwarts, sharing a dorm, Oliver was aware that his affection for his roommate was perhaps more than most blokes had for their mates, but back then, it was purely platonic. It was just something about Percy, Oliver thinks, that draws people in. Sure, most people are put off by his outwards uptight behavior, but once they get past that, Percy has an undeniable charm. It must be the way he listens, giving you his undivided attention as if you're the only person that matters (side note: Oliver also knows, for a fact, that multiple people want to date Percy, either simply because he's untouchable, or because of the previously mentioned charm), bright eyes focused on you, and only you. 

When he was younger, romance wasn't even a factor. Quidditch was his only passion back then, and it remained that way later. At Hogwarts, he'd had many friends (it was easy enough, honestly), but none of them were even close to his level of passion, and few seemed to be able to withstand his intensity, much less date him. Afterwards, playing professional Quidditch, he'd resigned himself that he would marry some witch that was a fan, but that they certainly wouldn't love each other. His only love, then, was Quidditch. He hadn't known he liked blokes until Percy (then again, he didn't know he liked people in general until Percy). 

But Oliver loves Percy, now, in the way he loves his friends but a little bit more. He knows though, that he can- no will, fall easily in love with Percy. 

He must be more hangover than he thought. He doesn't usually indulge in such reflections so early in the morning. It's not a bad thing, no, but it's slightly harder with the object of said reflections sitting next to him, still reading a newspaper. 

Speaking of which, Percy is now smiling fondly down on the paper, though he's trying to hide it. Oliver can tell by the way his lips are generally downturned, but the corner of his lips are still twitching. 

"What are you smiling at?" 

Percy blushes immediately, not meeting Oliver's eye guiltily, and mumbles something. 

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that." 

"I, er, just. You looked very serious. Like you're contemplating something."

"Perce, I _do_ have some brains." 

"Merlin, _really_? I always assumed you survived on pure Quidditch-obsession alone. Clearly, you don't use it very often." 

"Hey!" 

Oliver gives a mock-offended slap and they both dissolve in a fit of giggles. It feels nice to laugh, just the both of them, in the quiet haven of their little flat. 

When they finally stop laughing (it's not funny, but it is), they talk about something inconsequential. Well, it probably isn't, but Oliver focuses more on the way the sunlight makes Percy's hair look like fire, the way his glasses drop down his nose and he pushes them up absentmindedly, and the way he pushes the newspaper in Oliver's face as he's trying to prove a point (which shouldn't be cute, but_ it is_). 

Time passes quickly, and soon it's three, and Oliver has to leave for his weekly meet-up with "the gang," as they like to call themselves. He asks Percy if the other wants to come, but Percy declines on the grounds that he has some paperwork to catch up on. 

He leaves their flat (which, like all good wizarding dwellings, is equipped with anti-apparating charms), and apparates to a quiet little bookshop tucked in a little-frequented corner of London. It's one of those sorts of establishments that have no customers but somehow have been alive since the Garden of Adam and Eve. It's owned by Mr. F, a white-haired affable man who's a tad old-fashioned but is, on the whole, one of the nicest people Oliver has ever met (though he suspects that the man's capable of great sarcasm, if only Oliver catches him at the right time). Somehow, he knows Pepper, or Marla, or both (he's kind of muddled on the details), and so does his partner, a metamorphagus and animagus. 

Oliver's not sure why, but it's become the location of their weekly meet-ups, where they spend half their time perusing the extensive book selection and the other half shouting gossip from between the endless shelves in some sort of weird competition with murky rules that Oliver himself doesn't really understand, except knowing that he has to win. 

He apparates on the doorstep and _alomohora_'s himself in, making sure to lock the doors behind him (honestly, how is this place still operating? There are literally _no_ customers, and the door is always locked), when he's suddenly assaulted by a human body. 

All he hears is a "Oliver!" before everything goes black. 

Alright, that was slightly melodramatic. He doesn't actually faint, but someone is hugging him so tightly he's probably going to soon. 

"Alicia," he laughs, "you're going to choke me."

Alicia laughs and lets go of him, grinning cheekily. 

"Come on, Ol, you know I can't resist doing that to you."

"Unfortunately," Oliver groans, but he can't suppress a smile, even if she is mocking him. The reason she attacks him is actually to mock him for that one time in seventh year when he, in a fit of high spirits, barreled into her after a victorious match and knocked her down again. She'd ended up with a broken arm, which Promfrey squarely refused to heal citing that it was their fault they were that stupid. Now, seven years later, she never missed a chance to remind him of it.

An nine-year old bespectacled boy with a mop of unruly hair walks up to them, looking disapproving. 

"Honestly, you're so melodramatic. You're going to kill Uncle Oliver, and then who will babysit me when you visit Grandma?" 

"Grandma's not that bad, Jesus, Tristan."

Alicia scoops the young boy up in a hug, which he protests by squirming until finally admitting defeat, slumping over in her arms with a grumpy expression. It's funny; Alicia is strong, but watching her pick up the nine-year old with such ease is still quite a feat. 

"Oh, Uncle Oliver, stop _laughing_. This is why I prefer Uncle Percy. Honestly, both of you are like children."

Alicia lets him go while Oliver pouts, mock-offended. 

"You wound me so, Tristan. I'm much funner than Perce." 

"'Funner' is not a word, Uncle Oliver. Uncle Percy would know that." 

"Words are a social construct," he grumbles under his breath. Alicia laughs at that and ruffles Tristan's hair, pushing him off in the direction of the biography section.

"Away with you, you little demon. You'll probably find something interesting to read over there." 

They watch Tristan amble slowly, his stiff gait the only indication of his excitement. 

"He's doing well, then?" 

"Yeah," Alicia smiles softly, "he's doing pretty well." 

"I'm glad," he replies. She nods and they watch him quietly as he peruses the multiple nonfiction sections of the bookshop. 

Tristan is not actually Alicia's child. Alicia was and still is practical (despite her earlier behavior indicating the contrary), and after Hogwarts, she decided that she wanted to get a muggle degree. Her parent's having recently died, and her grandparents having died earlier and leaving her with a pretty fortune, she was in the economic means to do so. Quite frankly, Oliver thought it was a good idea. She was still grieving at the time, and he thought it would do some good to leave the Wizarding World, her parents' having been respectively a curse-breaker and an Auror which resulted in the both of them dying by magical means. She left and came back three years later, looking much better mentally and emotionally. Unfortunately for her, it was smack in the middle of a War. 

She could have fled, turn back to the Muggle World and disappeared. No one would have blamed her, in a time where muggle-borns were being killed simply for who they were. But she stayed and fought her ground, a true Gryffindor until the very last, taking part of an underground organization that helped muggleborns and their families escape the clutches of the Ministry. It was then that she'd met Tristan, six at the time. Tristan's parents were killed and he was alone with no known relatives and not a single knut to his name. 

She took him in, then, and the rest is history (for the record, that history involved a lot of sleepless nights, frequent panic attacks, crying and tears; he should know, since he was around for some of them). 

Now, she's for all intents and purposes a single mother at 24 (she's only a year younger than him but she's capable of acting so much older) with a stable job (marketing and sales for some beauty product or another that Oliver can never remember the name of). Tristan is more serious than most kids his age, but he's also been through so much more than most kids his age, and he relaxes now much more than he did before. 

It's good, that they're moving on and growing, leaving the past behind while never forgetting that it is a part of who they are. 

Oliver wonders if he's doing as good a job as they are. 

He saw a lot of things during the War. Quidditch was suspended a little more than three years after he graduated and joined Puddlemere United, seeing as mass gathering were a public hazard, as well as being frivolous in a time where people were in danger simply because of their parentage. Oliver, with his connections to the Weasleys and thus members of the Order, joined the Striker Air Force with the Auror department, hunting down Death Eaters and other convicted criminals. 

Those days were unclear, each day blurring by in a haze of violence and death and blood and fear. They all seemed so distant, a far away memory that belonged to someone else, even as he was living through them. Some moments, though, were sharp and focused, crystal-clear in his mind. He can recall the metallic tang of blood in the air and on his tongue, the smell of burning flames and smoke and ash, the bitterness of fear and rotting flesh, the absolute terror that was necessary, because it kept you alive, and that was all you could do. Live and fight, and hope you stayed alive to see another day. 

He dedicated himself to his tasks with the same focus he dedicated to Quidditch, but he could never put his soul into it. He's glad he's back to Quidditch now. He doesn't want flying, so precious to him, to become another thing ruined by the War, another passion cruelly grasped away from him. 

Sometimes, he can still picture it, the blood pounding in his ears, the wild tightening of his chest, the ash falling on his face, the shock of seeing corpses, lifeless and limp but still warm, the _horror_\- 

He blinks to find Alicia's face sympathetic, focus sharp on him. 

"You were thinking about the W-Wa- about it, weren't you?" She stumbles over the words, her voice soft and quiet, her face sympathetic and understanding. 

"I-" he hesitates before replying, and when he does, his voice as soft and quiet as hers, "Yeah. I was spacing out I guess. I think I'm still hungover a little. I don't usually- I mean, I don't usually... engage in reflection."

She places a comforting hand on his arm and says, "There's nothing wrong with thinking about it and, well, you know. I do that sometimes too, you know. I'll space out and be- be back there." 

She gives a shudder, her eyes distant, but turns back to him and adds, "I know it's been two years, but moving on is- it's hard. It's-Sometimes, I feel like all of these things, I should be over by now but it's still so _terrible_-" 

She stops, choking slightly on her word. Her eyes have taken that distant glassy look again, and he gently take the hand grasping his arm in his. 

"I know what you mean," he murmurs, almost too quietly for her to hear, "it feels like I should be over this by now. It's been two years, right?" 

"Yeah." 

"But you're right. It's- Moving on isn't that easy. It's hard and it takes time, and it's not our fault. It's _not our fault_." 

She gives him a wan smile and a not quite happy but not forced laugh, patting him affectionately on the arm. 

"Still our inspirational Gryffindor Quidditch captain with a way with words, I see." 

"Yeah," he returns a small smile of his own. 

"Mum!" Tristan pokes his head from an aisle, shouting and waving his arms excitedly. "Mum, come here!" 

"Coming!"

She turns to Oliver again. "I have to go, but it was nice seeing you Ollie. I can't make it next week because Tristan has an appointment with his therapist, so I'll see you in the week after next?" 

"Yeah, see ya Alicia," he returns and she gives him an affectionate peck on the cheek. 

He ambles towards the sports section (Muggle sports are fascinating), but he's not one hundred percent aware of his surroundings. It's another effect of the War, he reflects, that they break down so casually and pick up the pieces just as easily. He can't fully put it in words, but it's not really a bad thing. They're all much more comfortable with being vulnerable in public, and it doesn't seem so bad to feel, well, not good. It's okay to not be okay. 

In fact, they are regularly not okay, so to speak. 

He rambles through the rest of their hanging-out aimlessly but cheerfully, enjoying time spent with his friends. Even so, everything feels almost illusory, and he only half-registers what's going on until they're all departing and in front of the bookstore, Mr. F having having finished bidding them a cheerful goodbye as well as giving them all cute royal blue boxes of cookies, and Angelina's in front of him reminding him about the Weasley dinner on Sunday that he apparently agreed to. 

"Yeah," she's saying, "George told me that you're coming? Ring any bells? Honestly, Ollie, what _are_ you thinking about all the time? Not Quidditch because you aren't talking my ears off about some 'bloody brilliant new play.'" 

She pauses thoughtfully, then laughs, "A certain redhead, then? Hmm, seems like we're going to end up related after all." 

His first instinct is to deny; a powerful one, even if he doesn't feel ashamed of who he likes, necessarily. Still, even if it's only Angelina, he doesn't feel the need to expound on his love life. 

It takes a few minutes for the full implications of what she's just said to sink him, and less time to react. 

"Wait, you mean....Who proposed?"

"No! We aren't-I haven't-I haven't proposed... yet. But I have a ring and I've planned for it. Like, everything and the roses and romance and candles and all that stuff. I mean, I know it's only been like, three years, and with the whole F- with that, it's been a little, er... complicated. I just feel like we're in a, you know, a good spot right now for this. And I know it seems kind of early but, well, you know. Life's short. And I just. Merlin, I really _love_ him." 

He asks teasingly, "How do you know he'll say yes?" 

"Don't you know that I'm a hot piece?" She bats her eyes exaggeratedly, and they both burst into laughter. 

When they finally stop, he offers, "Seriously, I'm really happy for you, Angie. For what it's worth, I think you two know what you're doing. Hey, better make me a bridesmaid, yeah?"

She laughs. "You'd look smashing in a dress, Ollie." 

"That, I would."

"Um, just, don't tell anyone tomorrow, okay? I mean, obviously George can't know but I don't want the Weasleys to know either. It's not personal, obviously, but I just, er, kind of want this to be... ours. I mean, Alicia and Katie and Freddie and Marla and the whole gang know, but I haven't told my family and I don't want to get his involved either."

She blushes red, and continues. 

"I love them to bits but they're all rather, well. You know. Involved."

"Yeah, hey, don't worry. I won't tell anyone, promise. Wait, am I the last one to know?"

"Well," she arches an eyebrow, "I didn't couldn't come last last week because I went to see my parents and you didn't come last week. Something to do with a certain Percy Weasley, I was told?" 

He blushes and she looks satisfied. 

"Knew it," she says smugly, "Lanslow owes me five galleons now." 

"Actually, we're not, er, together yet." 

She waves her hand and pats his shoulder. "Yet? That's alright then. My bet doesn't expire until two months from now, so get on with it yeah? I'll see you tomorrow, Ollie. Bye!" 

She gives him an affectionate peck of the cheek and disparates with a smile. 

He sighs, his blush receding, and does the same. 

He thinks about it the entire time he walks up the stairs to his flat (too risky to aparate right in front of his flat, even if his entire floor are wizards). Personally, he agrees with Angelina; he's liked Percy for quite some time now and has loved him even longer, and he would quite like for them to get together as soon as possible. He wants to be able to grab Percy's mouth into a kiss whenever he gets into his face, to hold his hand while they're shopping, to put a hand around his waist at social events. But he stands by what he said earlier. 

He'll wait for Percy, however long it takes. 

He steps into absolute and unnerving quiet. He stops, body stiffening into an instinctive and practiced state of alert, wand drawn out and ready to be used. Memories flash in his mind of things during the War, times when he stepped into quiet houses like this, only to find pools of blood and cold bodies. He panics for a second, thinking of Percy, but tamps it down. Panic will do no good here; he must be cautious and in full possession of his capacities. A panicked man makes more mistakes than a rational one, after all. His mind hones on Percy, his first priority. 

Find Percy, make sure he's safe and if he's not, protect him at all costs. 

He stalks through the house silently. All the lights are on, Percy's coat hung on the coatrack (which he insisted for, by the way), his briefcase open with papers spilling out of it. A pot is on the stove, though the fire is off, a proof that Percy must have come home and started supper. His cup sits on the table where it's been since this morning, the newspaper neatly stored away in an alcove nearby.

Signs that he's been here, but no sign of Percy himself. 

Fear grips Oliver as he considers the possibilities. A Death-Eater escaped from prison, mad with revenge; some fanatic, here to hurt Percy in some way because of the role he played in the War; maybe even a common thief, that somehow managed to come in and... But Percy has a wand, and he's quite adept with it too. Still, panic and shock can make people do odd things, lose their wits. 

Not Percy, he thinks, but he doesn't know. 

Maybe-

He hears quiet, stifled sobs coming from the bathroom, and feels fear's grip loosen just a bit. At least Percy is alive and safe, but what could possibly?

"Perce?"

Oliver creaks open the bathroom's door open gently, head peaking in just slightly so as to not startle his red-head.

Percy's standing up precariously, a hand white from gripping on the edge of the sink, face pale and blotchy, his head bent forward. Oliver notes with a pang that there are slight red marks on his bare arms, scratches no doubt, and that Percy looks close to either fainting or barfing. He's also crying though he's muffling it with his other arm, red-rimmed eyes leaking with tears and if Oliver could see, his nose would probably be snotty and his mouth, wide and drooping. His chest heaves laboriously, looking as if he's trying to gulp down air but can't. His glasses sit on the back of the sink, horn-rimmed frames tilting dangerously down and looking as if they're about to fall on the floor, which is littered with shards of broken glass. 

"Percy?" Oliver whispers softly and Percy turns so quickly, he almost loses balance and knocks his head. Thankfully, Oliver's quick to react and casts a quick charm, rushing towards his friend and cradling him gently with his arms. He also casts a quick charm that restores the glass back into a mirror, and another one that fades the raw red marks. 

"O-Oliver." Percy sniffles slightly and still, tries to hide that he's probably been crying alone in this room for some time. 

"Percy. Perce, hey. I'm here." He rubs his back in what he hopes are soothing circles and Percy curls into him noticeably, sitting in Oliver's lap. Under other circumstances, he'd be happy, ecstatic even, but all he can feel now is pounding worry and concern. 

He lets Percy cry in his lap, holding his hands and kneading his palms, listening as his sobs subside and he exhales a shaky breath. 

"I-I'm s-sorry. I-I don't know why I just can't- I-I'm s-sorry, Ollie." 

He won't meet Oliver's eyes, his head hung low in what must be shame, trembling slightly even as his hands grip tightly onto Oliver's. 

"Hey, hey, look at me. There's nothing for you to be sorry about, okay? It's perfectly fine to not be okay, Percy. Do you want to talk about or?"

Percy sniffles a little bit more, and shakes his head. "No I-not right now. L-Later?"

"Of course," Oliver replies soothingly, "whenever you want. What about this. Change into your pajamas and get ready for bed. When you're done we can go-go to bed. Er, Percy, is it fine if I, er, sleep with you? Not like, in the same bed, we don't have to. But it would make me feel a lot better if I was, er, in the same room as you." 

"Y-Yeah," Percy replies, moving to stand up on shaky legs. Automatically, Oliver stands up too, his hands going to Percy's hips to steady him. 

"Okay. Do you-need my help with anything?" 

"N-No. I think I'm." He leaves it at that and Oliver nods. He's loathe to leave Percy, but the thought of watching him undress and guiding him through his evening routine is almost too much to bear. He would die if he saw Percy's naked body, at any rate. 

He changes into better clothing for sleep, his mind racing at kilometers an hour. A relapse, he thinks the term is, but it hardly matters what the term is. He's just not sure what he should do, what he can say to make Percy feel better. Or maybe, he shouldn't try to make Percy feel better. Maybe all he can do is listen and help him work through everything he's feeling. 

He doesn't know what to do. All he knows is that Percy deserve more than this, more than he thinks he does. He'll listen, Oliver resolves, and try to help, even though he doesn't know how. 

He reaches Percy's room to find the latter curled in the center of his bed, glasses placed on the stand. 

"Percy?" He whispers hesitatingly, in case the other is asleep already. He gets a grunt in response, Percy's hand raising slightly and tapping the spot next to him on the bed. Oliver climbs into the bed, lifting the covers gingerly as he lies down. Percy curls into him automatically, and he marvels at how well they fit together, like two puzzle pieces that belong. Percy presses his face close to his and Oliver takes his hands, kneading them while he waits. 

"I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Oliver. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you have to deal my mess and my constant fuck-ups and all of my shit and I'm sorry that you have to deal with me."

He says all of this in a single trembling breath and Oliver's heart breaks. 

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Perce. Remember what I said? It's okay to not be okay." 

He nods and starts speaking haltingly.

"I-I know. It's just-It's been two years. I should-I should be fine with it, by now. I mean, it's not like I haven't seen them or been to the Burrow-" 

He pauses, looking pained. 

Ah, so this is what it's about. Unsurprising. Percy never lets himself shed tears for anything other than his family, because he doesn't think he deserves it. 

"Is this what started it?"

He asks gently and the redhead nods. 

"I just-I haven't seen them all since-since The Funeral. It's not like I haven't seen them. And I've been to the Burrow to see Mum. And I see Dad everyday at work, and Harry too. And it's not like I haven't seen Ginny and Charlie and Ron and Bill and G-George and everyone else but-not all of them together. Not since The Funeral. I just don't know if I can deal with them all. I don't even know why. I mean, it's been two years." 

He started crying, and Oliver can feel the humidity in their shared pillow. 

"Hey, hey, Perce. It doesn't matter that it's been two years. It's perfectly natural to feel these kinds of things. You don't have to forget everything in the past. That's not what moving on is. You can't just forget all the hurt or the past. You can still try to be happy without erasing your past, Percy." 

"I-I know. I just. I don't know, Oliver. I feel like I don't know anything and sometimes I just wish everything could just stop for a second, so that I can get everything together." 

"I know what you mean. You just wish you can stop everything and get your thoughts together but you don't want to be trapped with them either, right? You feel like you have to think but you just can't sometime." 

"Yeah. Sometimes I just feel so a-alone. I know I don't deserve anything else but I just wish-" He stops. 

"Oh, Percy. You don't deserve to be alone, and you don't have to be. I'm with you. I'll always be with you, Perce." 

"I-I know, Oliver. You're too sweet. For what it's worth, I'll always be with you too." 

"I couldn't ask for a better companion, Percy." 

Oliver says it, and he knows it to be true. It's more than just this night, which he knows will drag on long into the morning. It's the future, years from now, when they'll still be together, helping and supporting each other in all the small ways that he knows they can. 

Moving on, he reflects, isn't easy and definitive. There isn't a single day when the pain stops, when the hurt goes away and becomes a memory. It never really stops, but that's just life. There's only day after day, trying to make the most of it. You can't forget the past and the pain, only look forward to the future and try to make it better. 

It's something that's taken Oliver two years and longer to finally put into coherent words, but that's also part of it. 

He looks forward to the future, to life, to Percy. 

Because he knows he deserves to live. He knows _they_ deserve to live and be happy, and he knows that they will, someday. 

He's willing to wait and work for it, no matter what it takes. 


End file.
